Reaching the Limit
by Roland Holmes
Summary: "He's dead, Sherlock, we found him this morning in his flat. Shot himself in the head. He left a note: 'You didn't come back, so I'm coming to you. -John'." Post-Reichenbach oneshot.


_Answer your phone, you dolt. -MH_

He threw it down, exasperated, onto the couch. It was the fourth text this morning. Surely Mycroft wasn't so thick that he couldn't realize that Sherlock didn't _want _to talk to him.

Perhaps dear brother had been slipping up in his absence. The thought brought an unfamiliar smirk to Sherlock's lips.

It had been so long. Too long. He'd been hiding away here for three months. He hated it. So boring – he wasn't allowed any cases. He sat around all day moping. Alone. Well, excluding Mycroft, but why would he want to talk to _him?_ There was nobody to make him eat, or bring him tea, or watch crap telly with him.

It was dreadful.

And the worst part of it all was that he _missed _his old life. That had never been a problem in previous relocation. He'd always managed to keep himself professionally distant from the settings and people he had interacted with. But now, it was almost as if he was _mourning_ this change. He actually missed it all.

He missed the bustle of busy London surrounding him. He wanted to return to Angelo's restaurant. He missed the backseats of black cabs, always ready when he called.

He missed Mrs. Hudson cleaning the clutter around his flat, despite her proclamation of not being the housekeeper. He longed for her motherly scoldings, and the kisses on his cheek. He wished he could once again hear her distressed shout when she found that he'd blown yet another hole in her wall, or accidentally let one of his experiments get too out of hand.

He missed the thrill of Lestrade telling him the news of a particularly exciting case. He wanted to see the look of competitive hatred in the glare of Sally Donovan as she lifted the caution line for him to enter the crime scene. He missed belittling Anderson and watching his clumsy attempts for redemption in the form of comebacks.

He would say that he missed Anderson himself, but that would be taking it too ridiculously far.

He wanted the familiar feel of a microscope in his practiced fingers, or the thrill of the delivery of expected results. He longed for the familiar pride washing through him at a correct deduction. He missed the praise of others at the same observations.

He missed John. Oh, _God,_ how he missed John.

He was now used to the aches that shot through him at the thought of his friend, his best friend, his only friend. However, these were as painful as the rest, and as always, he sat down on the uncomfortable sofa, lest his legs give up on him.

He missed John's shuffling around their flat, chiding him to pick up after himself, or help him bring groceries in, or, for God's sake Sherlock, can't you just get the milk yourself? He wanted to once again watch his friend's eyes drooping shut of their own accord when John had been trying to keep up with him for too long. He missed the glimmer he saw in them when Sherlock mentioned tea or dinner or sleep. He longed for his presence beside him as he bent over an experiment, and his fascinated compliments when he solved what seemed to be an impossible deduction for most people. The happiness, the companionship.

He clutched his head in his hands and he remembered John's eyes on that day. The astonishment and confusion.

The hurt.

He would have done anything to have taken away that pain.

But he had been forced to watch in silence as John Watson's life collapsed around him, tearing apart all shreds of normality that he'd gained after his return from war. The panic that flooded through him as he rushed forward, trying to see, trying to help. He watched as John was sent sprawling to the ground, on cue, and Sherlock had intended to leave then. But he was held in place by the destruction of his friend, by the devastation of the life he had known and loved.

These pains were suddenly much worse than the rest, accompanied by the memories of John's ruin. This was more of a problem than the patches could handle. He'd have to wait for this to pass. How monotonous.

But now Mycroft was hounding him. And even _that_ was more pleasant than wallowing in the past.

He reluctantly retrieved the mobile from the opposite end of the couch. After typing in the number that the text had been sent from, he stood and pressed call.

His answer was in the form of a voice-activated pass code. He sighed.

"That wasn't a request for a challenge, Mycroft."

"_And yet, you were not surprised by the code. Thus, I believe your call was as near an invitation as you come_."

He stayed silent, an eyebrow lifted expectantly to the voice at the end of the line.

At the lack of response, Mycroft sighed exasperatedly. "_Fine, then. Down to business_." He cleared his throat quietly. Uncomfortable. His younger wondered why the news would possibly bother him. This would be tedious.

"_He's dead, Sherlock, we found him this morning in his flat. Shot himself in the head._"

His brows knitted together. Who was he talking about? And why was he telling this to Sherlock? It wasn't as if he actually cared about one of Mycroft's friends. He didn't care about anybody.

Well, anybody except-

Dear lord, no.

He blinked hard and drummed his fingers on the mobile restlessly, trying to work this out. No, this was Mycroft's sick idea of a joke. John wasn't- he couldn't be-

He nearly missed the next words. Mycroft's voice had fallen to a whisper. It was an alien sound that barely held any traces of the man that ran most of the country of England.

"_He left a note_: 'You didn't come back, so I'm coming to you. -John_'_."

He gripped the armrest, breath becoming shallow. What was happening? Why was his chest so constricted? Was this panic? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Deliver oxygen. Through the mouth, to the lungs, in the blood, to the brain. Repeat. Focus on the process, the unchanging. Feel the normality. You're not in shock.

His eyes snapped open at the thought, and the phone fell from his face. He stared blankly ahead, unmindful of the distant sound of Mycroft attempting to get his attention. He swallowed once, not caring that his mouth was too dry.

This couldn't be real. No, there must be a flaw in Mycroft's reasoning, his evidence. Mycroft was always flawed. The thought held familiarity. He grasped at it resolutely. He recalled the case of Henry Knight. That feeling of doubt. He hadn't missed it, but that was the only similar thing this situation held. His body, his senses, presented him with evidence.

He couldn't accept it. It was wrong, had to be wrong.

He lifted the mobile once more. "You're lying," he said calmly, no emotion in the baritone voice.

He heard his brother sigh on the other end, partly in relief that he hadn't hung up, partly in sadness.

"_No, Sherlock, I'm not. God help me, I wish that I was. But no. John Watson is dead._"

"You're wrong." Still no inflection.

"_I'll have the reports sent to you. You can make of them what you will. But when you finally decide that I _am_ trustworthy, we can make it possible for you to see him a final time, if you wish. You surely realize that it would be completely inappropriate for you to attend his funeral, but we _could_ arrange one last visit_."

He felt himself nod, eyes drooping a bit. "Yes. That would be desirable. Goodbye, brother... and thank you."

And he hung up.

The reports came later that evening, along with a bag containing the weapon that had ended his best friend's life. Of course Mycroft needed to show him strong evidence. And this proof was undeniable.

He'd rested on the couch and scanned the papers. He resolutely ignored the photographs. The words and the gun were more than enough to assure him.

He reread again and again, searching desperately for flaws. He found none.

He didn't know how long his shaking hands held those reports, though it felt like a lifetime.

Somewhere in the dead of the night, he set them neatly on the table.

He stared ahead for a moment, for once not thinking of anything save for one thought.

_How did it come to this?_

The grey eyes suddenly felt superheated, and he blinked back the moisture he felt building there. He would not cry. John wouldn't find that acceptable.

Still watching the walls, looking _through _them, he rose once more. Walking slowly across the room, he didn't know his destination until he reached the subtle black desk resting in the corner. Without thinking, he pulled open a drawer.

And removed a Browning with numb fingers.

When Mycroft told him he needed a weapon, he'd insisted upon this. He knew that it had been sentiment that caused Sherlock to recommend it.

The emotion didn't feel as tedious at the time.

He sighed once, and raised it to his temple. The weight was steady, reassuring. The metal was cool against his feverish skin. His lips parted slightly.

One pale finger found the safety, the last barrier between him and John. The one that would take away this pain. He removed it without hesitation.

The gun was growing heavy in his hands. He was tired. So, so tired. For the first time in his life, he wanted to sleep, to finally rest.

In his hands was the answer to his problem.

His final problem.

The pale eyes fluttered shut.

_I'm coming, John._

If there had been another in the room with him when he pulled the trigger, they would have sworn Sherlock Holmes was smiling.

**AN: I had originally posted this as being a oneshot explaining some stuff from another fic, but I changed my mind. Anyway, thoughts are much appreciated, so please review!**

**Gif that inspired this: emilyshadenoughnow .tumblr post/19223804694/ hes-dead-sherlock-we-found-him-this-morning-in**


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